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BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 



THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, 



*' Mr. Bret Harte has already won a reputation as one of the most original 
of American writers. The charm of his sketches is not only in his style. 
That has an undeniable grace and ease, a sub-flavor of gentle and spontaneous 
humor, hinting at possibilities of fun rather than bursting into uproar, and 
an adaptability to true pathetic feeling ; but there are many other writers 
who display the same qualities in quite as high a degree. His peculiar merit 
is that he lias reproduced familiar forms of life in phases which we have all 
seen, but which no one has ever before painted ; that he has caught the 
gleam of poetic light which irradiates at moments common and vulgar 
scenes, and detected elements of beauty which lurk beneath the coarser fea- 
tures of American life, — beauty which we have felt a hundred times, but 
never learned to express in words." — New York Tribune. 

In one volvime. IGmo. Price, $1,50. 



FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., Publishers, Boston. 

*** For sale by all booksellers, or sent by mail, post paid, on reaipt 
of 2)rice. 



POEMS 



BRET HARTE 




BOSTON: 

FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO. 

1871. 



CMi^y "^ 



7^5 (^So 
I S 7 / 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, 
BY FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



■> XT- 



% 



University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

San Francisco, from the Sea 7 

The Angelus 11 

The Mountain Heart's-Ease 14 

Grizzly . 17 

Madrono . . . . * .20 

Coyote ,22 

To A Sea-Bird 24 

Her Letter 26 

Dickens in Camp 32 

What the Engines said 36 

"The Return of Belisarius" 40 

v/*' Twenty Years " • ... 43 

1^ Fate 46 

In Dialect. 

"Jim" . 49 

Chiquita 53 

Dow's Flat . . ' 58 

In the Tunnel 64 

"Cicely" 68 

Penelope 76 

Plain Language from Truthful James • • • 79 

• The Society upon the Stanislaus .... 84 



VI CONTENTS. 

Poems from i860 to 1868. 

John Burns of Gettysburg ...... 91 

v>jThe Tale of a Pony 98 

The Miracle of Padre Junipero 105 

An Arctic Vision iii 

To THE Pliocene Skull 117 

The Ballad of the Emeu 121 

The Aged Stranger 125 

" How are you, Sanitary ? " i 28 

The Reveille 131 

Our Privilege 134 

Relieving Guard • . . 136 

Parodies. 

A Geological Madrigal .... . . .139 

The Willows 142 

North Beach 148 

The Lost Tails of Miletus 150 



SAN FRANCISCO. 



FROM THE SEA. 



QERENE, indifFerent of Fate, 

Thou sittest at the Western Gate ; 



Upon thy heights so lately won 
Still slant the banners of the sun ; 

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, 
O Warder of two Continents ! 

And scornful of the peace that flies 
Thy angry winds and sullen skies, 



SAN FRANCISCO. 

Thou drawest all things, small or great, 
To thee, beside the Western Gate. 

***** 

lion's whelp, that hidest fast 

In jungle growth of spire and mast, 

1 know thy cunning and thy greed, 
Thy hard high lust and wilful deed, 

And all thy glory loves to tell 
Of specious gifts material. 

Drop down, O fleecy Fog, and hide 
Her sceptic sneer, and all her pride ! 

Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood 
Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. 



SAN FRANCISCO. 

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame ; 
With thy gray mantle cloak her shame ! 

So shall she, cowled, sit and pray 
Till morning bears her sins away. 

Then rise, O fleecy Fog, and raise 
The glory of her coming days ; 

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas 
Above her smoky argosies. 

When forms familiar shall give place 
To stranger speech and newer face ; 

When all her throes and anxious fears 
Lie hushed in the repose of years ; 



lO SAN FRANCISCO. 

When Art shall raise and Culture lift 
The sensual joys and meaner thrift, 

And all fulfilled the vision, we 

Who watch and wait shall never see,- 

Who, in the morning of her race, 
Toiled fair or meanly in our place, ^ 

But, yielding to the common lot, 
Lie unrecorded and forgot. 



THE ANGELUS, 

HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1 868. 

T3ELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 

Still fills the wide expanse, 
Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 

With color of romance : 

I hear your call, and see the sun descending 

On rock and wave and sand. 
As down the coast the Mission voices blending 

Girdle the heathen land. 

Within the circle of your incantation 
No blight nor mildew falls ; 



12 - THE ANGELUS. 

Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition 

Passes those airy walls. 

* 

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, 

1 touch the farther Past, — 
I see the dying glow of Spanish glory. 

The sunset dream and last ! 

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers. 

The white Presidio ; 
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, 

The priest in stole of snow. 

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting 

Above the setting sun ; 
And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting 

The freighted galleon. 



THE ANGELUS. I3 

O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses 

Recall the faith of old, — 
O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music 

The spiritual fold ! 

Your voices break and falter in the darkness, — 

Break, falter, and are still ; 
And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, 

The sun sinks from the hill ! 



THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE. 

"OY scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, 

By furrowed glade and dell, 
To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, 

Thou stayest them to tell 

The delicate thought, that cannot find expression, 

For ruder speech too fair, 
That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, 

And scatters on the air. 

The miner pauses in his rugged labor, 
And, leaning on his spade. 



THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE. 1 5 

Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor 
To see thy charms displayed ; 

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, 

And for a moment clear, 
Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises 

And passes in a tear, — 

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, 

Of uneventful toil, 
Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage 

Above a peaceful soil: 

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, 
Through root and fibre cleaves, 

And on the muddy current slowly drifting 
Are swept thy bruised leaves. 



1 6 THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE. 

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, 
Thy work thou dost fulfil, 

For on the turbid current of his passion 
Thy face is shining still ! 



GRIZZLY. 

r^ OWARD, — of heroic size, 

In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength we fear and yet despise ; 
Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks ; 
Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared 
O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard ; 
Whiskered chin, and feeble nose, 
Claws of steel on baby toes, — 
Here, in solitude and shade, 



1 8 GRIZZLY. 

Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade, 
Be thy courses undismayed ! 

Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 
Let thy rude, half-human tread 

Point to hidden Indian springs, 
Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 
• Hovered o'er by timid wings, 
Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets, — 
Epicurean retreats, 
Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 

In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
Thou mayst levy tithe and dole ; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer. 



GRIZZLY. 19 

From the pilgrim taking toll ; 

Match thy cunning with his fear ; 
Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 
Yet remain an outlaw still! 



MADRONO. 

/^APTAIN of the Western wood, 
Thou that apest Robin Hood ! 
Green above thy scarlet hose, 
How thy velvet mantle shows ; 
Never tree like thee arrayed, 
O thou gallant of the glade ! 

When the fervid August sun 
Scorches all it looks upon, 
And the balsam of the pine 
Drips from stem to needle fine, 
Round thy compact shade arranged, 
Not a leaf of thee is chanofed ! 



MADRONO. 21 

When the yellow autumn sun 
Saddens all it looks upon, 
Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, 
Strews its ashes in the rills, 
Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff. 
And in limbs of purest buff 
Challengest the sombre glade 
For a sylvan masquerade. 

Where, O where, shall he begin 
Who would paint thee, Harlequin ? 
With thy waxen burnished leaf. 
With thy branches' red relief, 
With thy poly-tinted fruit. 
In thy spring or autumn suit, — 
Where begin, and O, where end, — 
Thou whose charms all art transcend ? 



COYOTE. 

TD LOWN out of the prairie in twilight and dew, 
Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through ; 
Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay, 
He limps in the clearing, — an outcast in gray. 

A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, 
Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall. 
Lop-eared and large-jointed, but ever alway 
A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray. 

Here, Carlo, old fellow, — he 's one of your kind, — 
Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. 



COYOTE. 23 

What ! snarling, my Carlo ! So — even dogs may 
Deny their own kin in the outcast in gray. 

Well, take what you will, — though it be on the sly, 
Marauding, or begging, — I shall not ask why ; 
But will call it a dole, just to help on his way 
A four-footed friar in orders of gray ! 



TO A SEA-BIRD. 

SANTA CRUZ, 1 869. 

SAUNTERING hither on listless wings, 

Careless vagabond of the sea. 
Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, 
Give me to keep thy company. 

Little thou hast, old friend, that 's new, 
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee 

Sick am I of these changes, too ; 

Little to care for, little to rue, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 



TO A SEA-BIRD. 2$ 

All of thy wanderings, far and near, 

Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 
All of my journeyings end them here, 
This our tether must be our cheer, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, 

Something in common, old friend, have we ; 
Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, 
I to the waters look for rest, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 



HER LETTER. 

T 'M sitting alone by the fire, 

Dressed just as I came from the dance, 
In a robe even you would admire, — 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I 'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season " 

Is wasting an hour on you. 

A dozen engagements I Ve broken ; 
I left in the midst of a set : 



HER LETTER. 2/ 

Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 

That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 

They say he '11 be rich, — when he grows up, — 
And then he adores me indeed. 

And you, sir, are turning your nose up. 
Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position } " 

"And what do I think of New York.^" 
"And now, in my higher ambition. 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk.?" 
"And is n't it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds and silks, and all that?" 
"And aren't it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty P^'lat ? " 

Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving 
Each day in the park, four-in-hand, — 



28 HER LETTER. 

If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand, — 
If you saw papa's picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that, — 
You 'd never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sitting 

In the glare of the grand chandelier, — 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 

The '' finest soir/e of the year," — 
In the mists of a ^a^e de Chambery, 

And the hum of the smallest of talk, — 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 

And the dance that we had on " The Fork " ; 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 
Of f!a2:s festooned over the wall ; 



HER LETTER. 29 

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 
And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 

Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ; 
Of the dress of my queer vis-d-vis ; 

And how I once went down the middle 
With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 

On the hill, when the time came to go ; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 

From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest; 

Of — the something you said at the gate: 
Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress 

To "the best-paying lead in the State." 

Well, well, it 's all past ; yet it 's funny 
To think, as I stood in the glare 



30 HER LETTER. 

Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking, right there, 

Of some one who breasted high water, 
And swam the North Fork, and all that, 

Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter. 
The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I 'm writing ! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low,) 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I 'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! 
And I'm to be "finished" by travel, — 

Whatever 's the meaning of that, — 
O, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good night, — here's the end of my paper; 
Good night, — if the longitude please, — 



HER LETTER. 3 1 

For maybe, while wasting my taper, 
Yo2ir sun 's climbing over the trees. 

But know, if you have n't got riches, 
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that. 

That my heart 's somewhere there in the ditches, 
And you 've struck it, — on Poverty Flat. 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 

A BOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 
The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 



The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 
A hoarded volume drew, 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 33 

And cards were dropped from hands of listless 
leisure^ 
To hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered 
faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of " Little Nell." 

Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 
Listened in every spray, 



34 DICKENS IN CAMP. 

While the whole camp, with " Nell " on English 
meadows, 
Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o' ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles 
shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 
And he who wrought that spell ? — 

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire. 
Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 35 

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths intwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — 

This spray of Western pine ! 

July, 1870. 



WHAT THE ENGINES SAID. 
1 

OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD. 

'\1[ 7HAT was it the Engines said, 

Pilots touching, — head to head 
Facing on the single track, 
Half a world behind each back ? 
This is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread ! 

With a prefatory screech, 
In a florid Western speech, 
Said the Engine from the WEST : 
" I am from Sierra's crest ; 



WHAT THE ENGINES SAID. 3/ 

And, if altitude 's a test, 
Why, I reckon, it 's confessed. 
That I 've done my level best." 

Said the Engine from the EAST : 
"They who work best talk the least. 
S'pose you whistle down your brakes ; 
What you 've done is no great shakes, — 
Pretty fair, — but let our meeting 
Be a different kind of greeting. 
Let these folks with champagne stuffing, 
Not their Engines, do the puffing. 

" Listen ! Where Atlantic beats 
Shores of snow and summer heats ; 
Where the Indian autumn skies 
Paint the woods with wampum dyes, 



3.8 WHAT THE ENGINES SAID. 

I have chased the flying sun, 
Seeing all he looked upon, 
Blessing all that he has blest, 
Nursing in my iron breast 
All his vivifying heat, 
All his clouds about my crest ; 
And before my flying feet 
Every shadow must retreat." 

Said the Western Engine, " Phew ! " 

And a long low whistle blew. 

" Come now, really that 's the oddest 

Talk for one so very modest, — 

You brag of your East ! You do } 

Why, / bring the East to fo?i. ! 

All the Orient, all Cathay, 

Find through me the shortest way, 



WHAT THE ENGINES SAID. 39 

And the sun you follow here 
Rises in my hemisphere. 
Really, — if one must be rude, — 
Length, my friend, ain't longitude." 

Said the Union, " Don't reflect, or 
I '11 run over some Director." 
Said the Central, " I 'm Pacific, 
But, when riled, I 'm quite terrific. 
Yet to-day we shall not quarrel. 
Just to show these folks this moral. 
How two Engines — in their vision — 
Once have met without collision." 

That is what the Engines said. 
Unreported and unread ; 
Spoken slightly through the nose, 
With a whistle at the close. 



^'THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS." 

MUD FLAT, i860. 

O O you 're back from your travels, old fellow, 

And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; 
You 've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, 

Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. 
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning, 

Astounding, — and all that, you know ; 
Yes, things are about as you left them 

In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. 

The boys ! — They 're all right, — Oh ! Dick Ashley, 
He 's buried somewhere in the snow ; 



"THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS. 4I 

He was lost on the Summit, last winter, 
And Bob has a hard row to hoe. 

You knew that he 's got the consumption ? 
You did n't ! Well, come, that 's a go ; 

I certainly wrote you at Baden, — 
Dear me ! that was six months ago. 

I got all your outlandish letters, 

All stamped by some foreign P. O. 
I handed myself to Miss Mary 

That sketch of a famous chateau. 
Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco, — 

They say that he cuts quite a show. 
You did n't meet Euchre-deck Billy 

Anywhere on your road to Cairo .'' 

So you thought of the rusty old cabin, 
The pines, and the valley below.; 



42 " THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS." 

And heard the. North Fork of the Yuba, 
As you stood on the banks of the Po ? 

'T was just Hke your romance, old fellow ; 
But now there is standing a row 

Of stores on the site of the cabin 
That you lived in a twelvemonth ago. 

But it 's jolly to see you, old fellow, — 

To think it 's a twelvemonth ago ! 
And you have seen Louis Napoleon, 

And look like a Johnny Crapaud. 
Come in. You will surely see Mary, — 

You know we are married. What, no } 
O, ay. I forgot there was something 

Between you a twelvemonth ago. 



"TWENTY YEARS." 

T3 EG your pardon, old fellow ! I think 

I was dreaming just now, when you spoke, 
The fact is, the musical clink 
Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink 
A chord of my memory woke. 

And I stood in the pasture-field where 
Twenty summers ago I had stood ; 
And I heard in that sound, I declare, 
The clinkings of bells on the air. 
Of the cows coming home from the wood. 



44 "TWENTY YEARS." 

Then the apple-blooms shook on the hill ; 
And the mullein-stalks tilted each lance ; 
And the sun behind Rapalye's mill 
Was my uttermost West, and could thrill 
Like some fanciful land of romance. 

Then my friend was a hero, and then 
My girl was an angel. In fine, 
I drank buttermilk ; for at ten 
Faith asks less to aid her, than when 
At thirty we doubt over wine. 

Ah well, it does seem that I must 

Have been dreaming just now when you spoke, 

Or lost, very like, in the dust 

Of the years that slow fashioned the crust 

On that bottle whose seal you last broke. 



"twenty years. 45 

Twenty years was its age, did you say ? 
Twenty years ? Ah, my friend, it is true ! 
All the dreams that have flown since that day, 
All the hopes in that time passed away, 
Old friend, I 've been drinking with you ! 



PATE. 

" " I ^HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare ; 

The spray of the tempest is white in air ; 
The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

" The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
The panther clings to the arching limb ; 
And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day." 

But the ship sailed safely over the sea. 
And the hunters came from the chase in glee ; 
And the town that was builded upon a rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 



IN DIALECT 



"JIM." 

QAY there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 

Might know Jim Wild ? 
Well, — no offence : 
Thar ain't no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
That 's why I come 

Down from up yar, 
Lookin' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir ! F<?;/ 



50 "JIM. 

Ain't of that crew, — 
Blest if you are ! 

M:^ney? — Not much: 
That ain't my kind : 

I ain't no such. 

Rum ? — I don't mind, 

Seein' it 's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him ? — 
Jess 'bout your size ; 
Same kind of eyes .'* — 
Well, that is strange : 
Why, it's two year 
Since he came here, 
Sick, for a change. 



"JIM. 51 

Well, here 's to us : 

Eh ? 
The h you say ! 

Dead ? — 
That little cuss ? 

What makes you star, — 
You over thar? 
Can't a man drop 
's glass in yer shop 
But you must rar ? 

It would n't take 

D much to break 

You and your bar. 

Dead ! 
Poor — little— Jim! 



52 "JIM. 

— Why, thar was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 
Then to take -him ! 

Well, thar — Good by,— 
No more, sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What 's that you say ? — 
Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
No ? Yes ! By Jo ! 

Sold ! 
Sold ! Why, you limb. 
You ornery, 

Derned old 
Long-legged Jim ! 



CHIQUITA. 

"OEAUTIFUL! Sir, you may say so. Thar 
is n't her match in the county. 

Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my beauty } 

F'eel of that neck, sir, — thar 's velvet ! Whoa ! 
Steady, — ah, will you, you vixen ! 

Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentle- 
man look at her paces. 

Morgan ! — She ain't nothin' else, and I 've got 
the papers to prove it. 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dol- 
lars won't buy her. 



54 CHIQUITA. 

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know 

Briggs of Tuolumne ? — 
Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his 

brains down in 'Frisco ? 

Hed n't no savey — hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! 

that '11 do, — quit that foolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do, when she 's got her 

work cut out before her. 
Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, 

jockeys is jockeys ; 
And 't ain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what 

a boss has got in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got 

Flanigan's leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough 

ford in low water ! 



CHIQUITA. 55 

Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the 

Jedge and his nevey 
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and 

the water all round us; 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake 

Creek just a bilin', . 
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge 

on the river. 
I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and 

his nevey, Chiquita ; 
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from 

the top of the canon. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and 

Chiquita 
Buckled right down to her work, and afore I 

could yell to her rider, 



56 CHIQUITA. 

Took water jest at the ford, and there was the 

Jedge and me standing, 
And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, 

and a driftin' to thunder ! 

Would ye b'lieve it? that night that hoss, that ar' 

filly, Chiquita, 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all 

quiet and dripping: 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of 

l;iarness. 
Just as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ar' 

filly, Chiquita. 

That 's what I call a hoss ! and — What did you 

say ? — O, the nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem 

back to deny it. 



CHIQUITA. 57 

Ye see the denied fool had no seat, — ye could n't 

have made him a rider ; 
And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses 

— well, bosses is bosses! 



DOW'S FLAT. 

1856. 

T~\OW'S FLAT. That's its name. 

And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger } The same ? 
Well, I thought it was true, — 
For thar is n't a man on the river as can't spot 
the place at first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass, — 
And as to the how 

Thet the thing kem to pass, — 
Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye 
down here in the rrass : 



DOW'S FLAT. 59 

You see this 'y^^ Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
He sHpped up somehow 

On each thing thet he struck. 
Why, ef he 'd a straddled thet fence-rail the derned 
thing 'ed get up and buck. 

He mined on the bar 

Till he could n't pay rates ; 
He was smashed by a car 
When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife 
and five kids from the States. 

It was rough, — mighty rough; 

But the boys they stood by, 
And they brought him the stuff 

For a house, on the sly ; 



60 DOW'S FLAT. 

And the old woman, — well, she did washing, and 
took on when no one was nigh. 

But this yer luck of Dow's 

Was so powerful mean 
That the spring near his house 
Dried right up on the green ; 
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary 
a drop to be seen. 

Then the bar petered out. 

And the boys would n't stay ; 
And the chills got about, 
And his wife fell away ; 
But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual 
ridikilous way. 

One day, — it was June, — 
And a year ago, jest, — 



DOW'S FLAT. 6 1 

This Dow kem at noon 
To his work like the rest, 
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a 
derringer hid in his breast. 

He goes to the well, 

And he stands on the brink, 
And stops for a spell 
Jest to listen and think : 
For the sun in his eyes, (jest like^ this, sir!) you 
see, kinder made the cuss blink. 

His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play. 
And a gownd that was Sal's 
Kinder flapped on a bay : 
Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — 
as I 've heer'd the folks say. 



62 DOW'S FLAT. 

And — That 's a peart hoss 

Thet you Ve got, — ain't it now ? 
What might be her cost ? 

Eh ? Oh ! — Well, then, Dow — 
Let 's see, — well, that forty-foot grave was n't his, 
sir, that day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 

Sorter caved in the side, 
And he looked and turned sick, 
Then he trembled and cried. 
For you see the dern cuss had struck — *' Water.?" — 
Beg your parding, young man, there you lied! 

It was ^o/d, — in the quartz, 

And it ran all alike ; 
And I reckon five oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 



DOW'S FLAT. 6^ 

And that house with the coopilow 's his'n, — which 
the same is n't bad for a Pike. 

Thet 's why it 's Dow's Flat ; 

And the thing of it is 
That he kinder got that 

Through sheer contrairiness : 
For 't was water the derned cuss was seekin, and 
his luck made him certain to miss. 

Thet 's so. Thar 's your way 

To the left of yon tree ; 
But — a — look h'yur, say? 
Won't you come up to tea ? 
No } Well, then the next time you 're passin' ; and 
ask after Dow, — and thet 's me. 



IN THE TUNNEL. 

T^ID n't know Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia, — 
Long as he 's been 'yar? 
Look 'ee here, stranger, 
Whar hev you been ? 

Here in this tunnel 
He was my pardner, 

That same Tom Flynn, — 
Working together, 
In wind and weather. 

Day out and in. 



IN THE TUNNEL. 

Did n't know Flynn ! 
Well, that is queer ; 

Why, it 's a sin 

To think of Tom Flynn, — 
Tom with his cheer, 
Tom without fear, — 
Stranger, look 'yar! 

Thar in the drift, 

Back to the wall, 
He held the timbers 

Ready to fall; 

Then in the darkness 
I heard him call : 

" Run for your life, Jake ! 

Run for your wife's sake ! 

Don't wait for me." 



E • 



66 IN THE TUNNEL. 

And that was all 
Heard in the din, 
Heard of Tom Flynn,~ 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That 's all about 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That lets me out. 

Here in the damp, — 

Out of the sun, — 
That 'ar derned lamp 

Makes my eyes run. 

Well, there, — I 'm done ! 

But, sir, when you '11 
Hear the next fool 
Asking of Flynn, — ■ 



IN THE TUNNEL. 6/ 

Flynn of Virginia, — 

Just you chip in, 

Say you knew Flynn ; 
Say that you Ve been 'yar. 



"CICELY." 



ALKALI STATION. 



/^^*ICELY says you're a poet; maybe; I ain't 

much on rhyme : 
I reckon you 'd give me a hundred, and beat me 

every time. 
Poetry ! — that 's the way some chaps puts up an 

idee, 
But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and 

that 's what 's the matter with me. 

Poetry! — just look round you, — alkali, rock, and 

sage; 
Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain't it a pretty 

page ! 



" CICELY." 69 

Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at 

night, 
And the shadow of this 'yer' station the ony thing 

moves in sight. 

Poetry ! — Well now — Polly ! Polly, run to your 

mam ; 
Run right away, my pooty ! By by ! Ain't she a 

lamb ? 
Poetry ! — that reminds me o' suthin' right in that 

suit : 
Jest shet that door thar, will yer? — for Cicely's ears 

is cute. 

Ye noticed Polly, — the baby? A month afore she 

was born. 
Cicely — my old woman — was moody-hke and 

forlorn ; 



70 " CICELY. 

Oat of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers 

and trees ; 
Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what 

a woman he's. 

Narvous she was, and restless, — said that she 

'* could n't stay." 
Stay, — and the nearest woman seventeen miles 

away. 
But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he 

would be on hand, 
And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in 

that bit o' land. 

One night, — the tenth of October, — I woke with 

a chill and fright. 
For the door it was standing open, and Cicely 

warn't in sight. 



"CICELY." 71 

But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it 

said that she " could n't stay," 
But had gone to visit her neighbor, — seventeen 

miles away ! 

When and how she stampeded, I did n't wait for 

to see, 
For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild 

as she ; 
Running first this way and that way, like a hound 

that is off the scent, 
For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell 

me the way she went. 

I Ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem 

to this spot, — 
Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost, and 

shot ; 



72 CICELY. 

But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy 

wife, 
Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my 

life. 

" Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " I called, and I held my 

breath, 
And " Cicely ! " came from the canyon, — and all 

was as still as death. 
And " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " came from the 

rocks below, 
And jest but a whisper of " Cicely ! " down from 

them peaks of snow. 

I ain't what you call religious, — but I jest looked 

up to the sky, 
And — this 'yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe 

ye think I lie : 



" CICELY. 73 

But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and 

far, 
I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of 

star. 

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon 

to me : 
Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never 

see : 
Big and yaller and dancing, — I never saw such a 

star. 
And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I 

went for it then and thar. 

Over the brush and bowlders I sturtibled and 

pushed ahead : 
Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. 
4 



74 " CICELY." 

It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and 

peart and nigh, 
Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's 

cry. 

Listen ! thar 's the same music ; but her lungs 

they are stronger now 
Than the day I packed her and her mother, — I 'm 

derned if I jest know how. 
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke 

o' the whole thing is 
That Cis never knew what happened from that 

very night to this ! 

But Cicely says you 're a poet, and maybe you 

might, some day, 
Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born 

in a curious way. 



CICELY. 



75 



And see what she says ; and, old fellow, when you 

speak of the star, don't tell 
As how 't was the doctor's lantern, — for maybe 

't won't sound so well. 



PENELOPE. 

Simpson's r>AK. 1S5S. 

00 you 'vo kom 'yor agon, 

And one answer won't do? 
Well, of all the dorncd men 
That I 've struok, it is you. 
O Sal ! yer 's that derned ibol tVoni Simpson's, 
cavort in' round 'ver in the dew. 

Kem in, of you zi'iU. 

Thar, — quit ! Take a cheer. 
Not that ; you ean't fill 

Them theer cushings this ^•ear, — 
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and 
they don't make such men about 'yer. 



PENELOPE. ^7 

He was tall, wars my Jack, 
And as strong as a tree. 
Thar 's his gun on the rack, — 
Jest you heft it, and see. 
And you come a courtin' his widder. Lord ! where 
can that critter, Sal, be! 



You 'd fill my Jack's place ? 

And a man of your size, — 
With no baird to his face, 
Nor a snap to his eyes, — 
And nary — Sho ! thar ! I was foolin', — I was, 
Joe, for sartain, — don't rise. 

Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! 
I 'm as weak as a gal, 



78 PENELOPE. 

Sal ! Don't you go, Joe, 
Or I '11 faint, — sure, I shall. 
Sit down, — anywheeVy where you like, Joe, — in that 
cheer, if you choose, — Lord, where 's Sal! 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL 
JAMES. 

TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1 8/0. 

\ X /"HIGH I wish to remark, — 

And my language is plain, — 
That for ways that are dark 

And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 

Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name ; 
And I shall not deny 



So PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 

In regard to the same 

What that name might imply, 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third ; 

And quite soft was the skies ; 
Which it might be inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise; 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand : 
It was Euchre. The same 

He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat by the table, 

With the smile that was childlike and bland. 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 8 1 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 
And my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve : 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made, 

Were quite frightful to see, — 
Till at last he put down a right bower. 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh. 

And said, " Can this be } 

4* F 



S2 PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," — 
And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand, 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, 

In the game "he did not understand." 

In his sleeves, which were long, 

He had twenty-four packs, — 
Which was coming it strong, 

Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper. 

What is frequent in tapers, — that 's wax. 

Which is why I remark, 
And my language is plain, 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL J A LIES. 83 

That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 

T RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is 

Truthful James ; 
I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games ; 
And I '11 tell in simple language what I know 

about the row 
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. 

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man. 
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar 

whim. 
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" 

on him. 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 8$ 

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to 

see 
Than the first six months' proceedings of that 

same society, 
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil 

bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement 

of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed 
there. 

From those same bones, an animal that was ex- 
tremely rare ; 

And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension 
of the rules, 

Till he could prove that those same bones was 
one of his lost mules. 



S6 THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he 
was at fault. 

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's fam- 
ily vault : 

He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. 
•Brown, 

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the 
town. 

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 

To say another is an ass, — at least, to all intent ; 

Nor should the individual who happens to be 
meant 

Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great ex- 
tent.' 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of or- 
der — when 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 8/ 

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the 

abdomen, 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled 

up on the floor, 
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no 

more. 

For, in less time than I write it, every member 

did engage 
In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic 

age; 
And the way they heaved those fossils in their 

anger was a sin, 
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head 

of Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper 
games. 



88 THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 

\ 

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is 

Truthful James ; 
And I 've told in simple language what I know 

about the row 
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. 



POEMS 



FROM i860 TO 1868. 



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 

T T AVE you heard the story that gossips tell 
Of Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
Briefer the story of poor John Burns : 
He was the fellow who won renown, — 
The only man who did n't back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town: 
But held his own in the fight next day, 
When all his townsfolk ran away. 
That was in July, sixty-three, 
The very day that General Lee, 
Flower of Southern chivalry. 
Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 



92 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 

I might tell how, but the day before, 
John Burns stood at his cottage door, 
Looking down the village street, 
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine. 
And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 
Or I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
The milk that fell, in a babbling flood 
Into the milk-pail, red as blood ! 
Or how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
Who minded only his own concerns, 
Troubled no more by fancies fine 
Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, • 



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 93 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 
Slow to argue, but quick to act. 
That was the reason, as some folk say, 
He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 
Raged for hours the heady fight, 
Thundered the battery's double bass, — 
Difficult music for men to face ; 
While on the left — where now the graves 
Undulate like the living waves 
That all that day unceasing swept 
Up to the pits the rebels kept — 
Round shot ploughed the upland glades. 
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 
Shattered fences here and there 
Tossed their splinters in the air ; 



94 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 

. The very trees were stripped and bare ; 
The barns that once held yellow grain 
Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 
The cattle bellowed on the plain, 
The turkeys screamed with might and main, 
And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 
With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns. 

Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed ? 

He wore an ancient long buff vest. 

Yellow as saffron, — but his best ; 

And, buttoned over his manly breast. 

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons, — ^"size of a dollar, — 

With tails that the country-folk called " swaller." 



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 95 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 
White as the locks on which it sat. 
Never had such a sight been seen 
For forty years on the village green. 
Since old John Burns was a country beau, 
And went to the " quiltings " long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day. 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 

Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore. 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore ; 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore. 

With scraps of a slangy repertoire : 

" How are you, White Hat ! " '• Put her through ! " 



96 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSDURG. 

" Your head 's leveV and " Bully for you ! " 
Called him " Daddy," — begged he 'd disclose 
The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 
And what was the value he set on those ; 
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 
Stood there picking the rebels off, — 
With his long brown rifle, and bell-crown hat. 
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'T was but a moment, for that respect 
Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 
And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand ; 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown ; 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 



JOHN BURxXS OF GETTYSBURG. 9/ 

In the antique vestments and long white hair, 
The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest : 
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge, and ran. 
At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns ; 
This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question 's whether 
You '11 show a hat that 's white, or a feather ! 
5 G 



THE TALE OF A PONY. 

"XTAME of my heroine, simply "Rose"; 

Surname, tolerable only in prose ; 
Habitat^ Paris, — that is where 
She resided for change of air ; 
j^tat XX ; complexion fair, 
Rich, good-looking, and debonnaire, 
Smarter than Jersey-lightning — There ! 
That 's her photograph, done with care. 

In Paris, whatever they do besides. 
Every lady in full dress rides ! 
Moire antiques you never meet 
Sweeping the filth of a dirty street ; 



THE TALE OF A PONY. 99 

But every woman's claim to ton 

Depends upon 
The team she drives, whether phaeton, 
Landau, or britzka. Hence it 's plain 
That Rose, who was of her toilet vain. 
Should have a team that ought to be 
Equal to any in all Paris ! 

" Bring forth the horse ! " — The coimnissaire 

Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair 

Leading an equipage rich and rare: 

'' Why doth that lovely lady stare ? " 

Why ? The tail of the off gray mare 

Is bobbed, —by all that's good and fair! 

Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, 

Scarcely showing as much back-hair 

As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg," — and there 

Lord knows she'd little enough to spare. 



[00 THE TALE OF A PONY. 

That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, 

But did, — as well-bred Frenchmen do : 

Raised his shoulders above his crown, 

Joined his thumbs, with the fingers down. 

And said, " Ah Heaven ! " — then, " Mademoiselle, 

Delay one minute, and all is well ! " 

He went ; returned ; by what good chance 

These things are managed so well in France 

I cannot say, — but he made the sale. 

And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail. 

All that is false in this world below 
Betrays itself in a love of show ; 
Indignant Nature hides her lash 
In the purple-black of a dyed mustache ; 
The shallowest fop will trip in French, 
The would-be critic will misquote Trench ; 



THE TALE OF A PONY. 10 1 

In short, you 're always sure to detect 

A sham in the things folks most affect; 

Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, 

And you always wink with your weakest eye : 

And that 's the reason the old gray mare 

Forever had her tail in the air, 

With flourishes beyond compare, 

Though every whisk 

Incurred the risk 
Of leaving that sensitive region bare, — 
She did some things that you could n't but feel 
She would n't have done had her tail been real 

Champs Elysees : Time, past five ; 
There go the carriages, — look alive! 
Everything that man can drive, 
Or his inventive skill contrive, — 



102 THE TALE OF A PONY. 

Yankee buggy or English " chay " ; 
Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe, 
A desobligeante quite bulky, 
(French idea of a Yankee stdky ;) 
Band in the distance, playing a march. 
Footmen standing stiff as starch ; 
Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- 
Bishops, and there together range 
5f??^^-lieutenants and r^/^Z-gardes, (strange 
Way these soldier-chaps make change,) 
Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames. 
With unpronounceable awful names ; 
Laces tremble, and ribbons flout. 
Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout, 
Bless us ! what is the row about ? 
Ah ! here comes Rosey's new turn-out I 



THE TALE OF A PONY. IO3 

Smart ! You bet your life 't was that ! 

Nifty ! (short for magnificat 

Mulberry panels, — heraldic spread, — 

Ebony wheels picked out with red, 

And two gray mares that were thoroughbred ; 

No wonder that every dandy's head 

Was turned by the turn-out, — and 't was said 

That Casko whisky (friend of the Czar), 

A very good ivhip (as Russians are), 

Was tied to Rosey's triumphal car, 

Entranced, the reader will understand, 

By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand. 

Alas ! the hour you think would crown 
Your highest wishes should let you down! 
Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, 
Your victor's car to an ambulance ; 



104 THE TALE OF A PONY. 

From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance, 

(And these things happen, even in France ;) 

And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, — 

The cynosure of every eye, — • 

Saw to her horror the off mare shy, — 

Flourish her tail so exceeding high 

That, disregarding the closest tie. 

And vi^ithout giving a reason why. 

She flung that tail so free and frisky 

Off in the face of Caskowhisky ! 

Excuses, blushes, smiles : in fine, 
End of the pony's tail, and mine! 



THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO. 

'T^HIS is the tale that the Chronicle 

Tells of the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, 
The very reverend Junipero. 

The Heathen stood on his ancient mound, 
Looking over the desert bound 
Into the distant, hazy south, 
Over the dusty and broad champaign 
Where, with many a gaping mouth. 
And fissure cracked by the fervid drouth, 
5* 



I06 THE MIRACLE OF PADRE J UNIPERO. 

For seven months had the wasted plain 
Known no moisture of dew or rain. 
The wells were empty and choked with sand ; 
The rivers had perished from the land; 
Only the sea fogs, to and fro, 
Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. 
Deep in its bed lay the river s bones, 
• Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, 
And tracked o'er the desert faint and far, 
Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. 

Thus they stood as the sun went down 

Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; 

Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom 

The pale-face medicine-man should come. 

Not in anger, or in strife. 

But to bring — so ran the tale — 



THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO. lO/ 

The welcome springs of eternal life, 
The living waters that should not fail. 

Said one, " He will come like Manitoii, 

Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew." 

Said another, " He will come full soon 

Out of the round-faced watery moon." 

And another said, *' He is here!" and lo, — 

Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, — 

Out from the desert's bUnding heat 

The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet. 

They stood and gazed for a little space 

Down on his palHd and careworn face. 

And a smile of scorn went round the band 

As they touched alternate with foot and hand 

This mortal waif, that the outer space 

Of dim mysterious sky and sand 



I08 THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO. 

Flung with so little of. Christian grace 
Down on their barren, sterile strand. 

Said one to him : " It seems thy god 
Is a very pitiful kind of god ; 
He could not shield thine aching eyes 
From the blowing desert sands that rise, 
Nor turn aside from thy old gray head 
The glittering blade that is brandished 
By the sun he set in the heavens high ; 
He could not moisten thy lips when dry ; 
The desert fire is in thy brain ; 
Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain : 
If this be the grace he showeth thee 
Who art his servant, what may we, 
Strange to his ways and his commands, 
Seek at his unforgiving hands ? " 



THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO. 1 09 

"Drink but this cup," said the Paclre, strais'.i:, 
''And thou shalt know whose mercy bore 
These aching limbs to your heathen door, 
And purged my soul of its gross estate. 
Drink in His name, and thou shalt see 
The hidden depths of this mystery. 
Drink ! " and he held the cup. One blow 
From the heathen dashed to the ground below 
The sacred cup that the Padre bore ; 
And the thirsty soil drank the precious store 
Of sacramental and holy wine, 
That emblem and consecrated sign 
And blessed symbol of blood divine. 

Then, says the legend, (and they who doubt 

The same as heretics be accurst,) 

From the dry and feverish soil leaned out 



no THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO. 

A living fountain ; a well-spring burst 

Over the dusty and broad champaign, 

Over the sandy and sterile plain, 

Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones 

That lay in the valley — the scattered bones — 

Moved in the river and lived again ! 

Such was the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the cup of wine that fell 
From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, 
The very reverend Junipero. 



AN ARCTIC VISION. 

TT THERE the short-legged Esquimaux 

Waddle in the ice and snow, 
And the playful polar bear 
Nips the hunter unaware ; 
Where by day they track the ermine, 
And by night another vermin, — 
Segment of the frigid zone, 
Where the temperature alone 
Warms on St. Elias' cone ; 
Polar dock, where Nature slips 
From the ways her icy ships ; 
Land of fox and deer and sable, 



112 AN ARC'JIC VISION. 

Shore end of our western cable, — 
Let the news that flying goes 
Thrill, through all your Arctic fioes, 
And reverberate the boast 
From the cliffs of Beechey's coast, 
Till the tidings, circling round 
Every bay of Norton Sound, 
Throw the vocal tide-wave Lack 
To the isles of Kodiac. 
Let the stately polar bears 
Waltz around the pole in pairs, 
And the walrus, in his glee. 
Bare his tusk of ivory ; 
While the bold sea unicorn 
Calmly takes an extra horn ; 
All ye polar skies, reveal your 
Very rarest of parhelia ; 



AN ARCTIC VISION. 1 13 

Trip it, all ye merry dancers, 
In the airiest of lancers ; 
Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, 
One inch farther to the tide. 
Nor in rash precipitation 
Upset Tyndall's calculation. 
Know you not what fate awaits you, 
Or to whom the future mates you ? 
All ye icebergs make salaam, — 
You belong to Uncle Sam ! 

On the spot where Eugene Sue 
Led his wretched Wandering Jew, 
Stands a form whose features strike 
Russ and Esquimaux alike. 
He it is whom Skalds of old 
In their Runic rhymes foretold ; 



14 AN ARCTIC VISION. 

Lean of flank and lank of jaw, 
See the real Northern Thor ! 
See the awful Yankee leering 
Just across the Straits of Behrinr; 
On the drifted snow, too plain, 
Sinks his fresh tobacco stain 
Just beside the deep inden- 
Tation of his Number lo. 

Leaning on his icy hammer 
Stands the hero of this drama. 
And above the wild-duck's clamor, 
In his own peculiar grammar, 
With its linguistic disguises, 
Lo, the Arctic prologue rises : 
" Wa'll, I reckon 't ain't so bad, 
Seein' ez 't was all they had ; 



AN ARCTIC VISION. II5 

True, the Springs are rather late 

And early Falls predominate ; 

But the ice crop 's pretty sure, 

And the air is kind o' pure ; 

'T aint so very mean a trade, 

When the land is all surveyed. 

There 's a right smart chance for fur-chase 

All along this recent purchase. 

And, unless the stories fail. 

Every fish from cod to whale ; 

Rocks, too ; mebbe quartz ; let 's see, — 

'T would be strange if there should be, — 

Seems I 've heerd such stories told ; 

Eh ! — why, bless us, — yes, it 's gold ! " 

While the blows are falling thick 
From his California pick, 



Il6 AN ARCTIC VISION. 

You may recognize the Thor 
Of the vision that I saw, — 
Freed from legendary glamour, 
See the real magician's hammer. 



TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL. 

A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS. 

'' Q PEAK, O man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil ! 

Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, 
Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum 
Of volcanic tufa ! 

" Older than the beasts, the oldest Pateotherium 
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami ; 
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions 
Of earth's epidermis ! 

" Eo — Mio — Plio — whatsoe'er the " cene " was 
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and 
wonder, — 



Il8 TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL. 

Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches, — 
Tell us thy strange story ! 

" Or has the professor slightly antedated 
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, 
Giving thee an air that 's somewhat better fitted 
For cold-blooded creatures ? 

" Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest 
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria 
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant 
Carboniferous epoch ? 

''Tell us of that scene, — the dim and watery woodland 
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect 
Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with 
tall club-mosses, 

Lycopodiacea, — 



i^TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL. II9 

" When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaiirus, 
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, 
While from time to time above thee flew and circled 
Cheerful Pterodactyls. 

** Tell us of thy food, — those half-marine refections, 
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods art, naUirel, — 
Cuttle-fish to which the pieii-vre of Victor Hugo 
Seems a periwinkle. 

*' Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation, — 
Solitary fragment of remains organic ! 
Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence, — 
Speak ! thou ofdest primate ! " 

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, 

And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, 



20 TO THE PLIOCEM': SKL'LL. '*• 



With post-plioccne sounds of healthy mastication, 
Ground the teeth together. 



And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, 
Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, 
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs 
Of expectoration ; 

•'* Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted 
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County, 
But I 'd take it kindly if you 'd send the pieces 
Home to old Missouri ! " 



THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU. 

/^ SAY, have you seen at the Willows so green, - 

So charming and rurally true, — 
A singular bird„ with a manner absurd, 
Which they call the Australian Emeu ? 

Have you 
Ever seen this Australian Emeu? 

It trots all around with its head on the ground. 
Or erects it quite out of your view ; 

And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, 

O, what a sweet pretty Emeu ! 

Oh! do 

Just look at that lovely Emeu ! 
6 



122 THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU. 

One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, 

Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue ; 
And beside her there came a youth of high name, — 
Augustus Florell Montague : 

The two 
Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu. 

• 
With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead 

Of the flesh of the white cockatoo, 
Which once was its food in that wild neighborhood 
Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo ; 

That too 
Is game for the famous Emeu ! 

Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets 

Like the world-famous bark of Peru ; 
There 's nothing so hard that the bird will discard, 



THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU. 1 2$ 

And nothing its taste will eschew, 

That you 
Can give that long-legged Emeu ! 

The time slipped away in this innocent play, 
When up jumped the bold Montague : 

" Where 's that specimen pin that I gayly did win 
In raffle, and gave unto you, 

Fortescue ? " 
No word spoke the guilty Emeu ! 

" Quick ! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same, 
Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue ! " 

" Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side, 
" I 'm innocent as that Emeu ! " 

" Adieu ! " 
He replied, " Miss M. H. Fortescue ! " 



124 THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU. 

Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet. 

As wildly he fled from her view ; 
He thought 't was her sin, — for he knew not the pin 

Had been gobbled up by the Emeu ; 

All through 

The voracity of that Emeu ! 



THE AGED STRANGER. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 

" T WAS with Grant — " the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, " Say no more, 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 
For thy feet are weary and sore." 

" i was with Grant — " the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,— 
I prithee sit at my frugal board, 

And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps > 



126 THE AGED STRANGER. 

I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

*' I know him not/' said the aged man, 

" And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant — " " Nay, nay, I know,'* 

Said the farmer, " say no more ; 

" He fell in battle, — I see, alas ? 

Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — 
Nay : speak the truth, whatever it be. 

Though it rend my bosom's core. 

" How fell he, — with his face to the foe, 

Upholding the flag he bore ? 
O, say not that my boy disgraced 

The uniform that he wore ! " 



THE AGED STRANGER. 12/ 

" I cannot tell/' said the aged man, 
" And should have remarked, before, 

That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 
Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 

But beat with his fist full sore 
That aged man, who had worked for Grant 

Some three years before the war. 



"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" 

T~^OWN the picket-guarded lane, 

Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 

Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 
Soldier-like and merry : 

Phrases such as camps may teach, 

Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech. 

Such as "Bully!" "Them's the peach!" 
" Wade in. Sanitary ! " 

Right and left the caissons drew, 
As the car went lumbering through. 
Quick succeeding in review 
Squadrons military ; 



"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" I29 

Sunburnt men with beards like frieze. 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries Hke these,— 
"U. S. San. Com." "That's the cheese ! " 
" Pass in. Sanitary ! " 

In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won, 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo ! was stationary ; 
And where bullets whistling fly, 
Came the sadder, fainter cry, 
" Help us, brothers, ere we die, — 

Save us. Sanitary !." 

Such the work. The phantom flies, 

Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 

But the brave — whose dying eyes, 

Veiled and visionary, 
6* 



130 "HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" 

See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride 
"Pass in, Sanitary!" 



THE REVEILLE. 

T T ARK ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 

And of armed men the hum ; 
Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Round the quick alarming drum, — 
Saying, " Come, 
Freemen, come ! 
Ere .your heritage be wasted," said the quick 
alarming drum. 

" Let me of my heart take counsel : 

War is not of Life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 

When the autumn days shall come ? " 



132 THE REVEILLE. 

But the drum 
Echoed, " Come ! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the 
solemn-sounding drum. 

" But when won the coming battle, 
What of profit springs therefrom ? 
What if conquest, subjugation. 
Even greater ills become ? " 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yan- 
kee-answering drum. 

"What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, 

Whistling shot and bursting bomb. 
When my brothers fall around me, 

Should my heart grow cold and numb ? " 



THE REVEILLE. 1 33 

But the drum 
Answered " Come ! 
Better there in death united, than in life a rec- 
reant, — come ! " 

Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some. 
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, 
Said, "My chosen people, come!" 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb. 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, an- 
swered, " Lord, we come ! " 



OUR PRIVILEGE. 

]V T OT ours, where battle smoke upcurls, 

And battle dews lie wet, 
To meet the charge that treason hurls 
By sword and bayonet. 

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe 

The fleshless reaper wields ; 
The harvest moon looks calmly down 

Upon our peaceful fields. 

The long grass dimples on the hill, 
The pines sing by the sea, 



OUR PRIVILEGE. 135 

And Plenty, from her golden horn, 
Is pouring far and free. 

O brothers by the farther sea, 

Think still our faith is warm ; 
The same bright flag above us waves 

That swathed our baby form. 

The same red blood that dyes your fields 

Here throbs in patriot pride ; 
The blood that flowed when Lander fell. 

And Baker's crimson tide. 

And thus apart our hearts keep time 

With every pulse ye feel, 
And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime 

With Valor's clashing steel. 



RELIEVING GUARD. 

S. T. K. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1 864. 

« 

/^^AME the Relief. "What, Sentry, ho! 

How passed the night through thy long waking ? " 
" Cold, cheerless, dark, — as may befit 
The hour before the dawn is breaking." 

"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save 
The plover from the marshes calling, 
And in yon Western sky, about 
An hour ago, a Star was falling." 

" A star ? There 's nothing strange in that" 
" No, nothing ; but, above the thicket. 
Somehow it seemed to me that God 
Somewhere had just relieved a picket." 



PARODIES 



A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL. 

AFTER HERRICK. 

T HAVE found out a gift for my fair ; 

I know where the fossils abound, 
Where the footprints of Aves declare 

The birds that once walked on the ground; 
O, come, and — in technical speech — 

We '11 walk this Devonian shore, 
Or on some Silurian beach 

We '11 wander, my love, evermore. 

I will show thee the sinuous track 
By the slow-moving annelid made, 



140 A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL. 

Or the Trilobite that, farther back, 

In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid. 

Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, 
The Plesiosaurus embalmed ; 

In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, — 
Iguanodon safe and unharmed ! 

You wished — I remember it well. 

And I loved you the more for that wish — 
For a perfect cystedian shell 

And a whole holocephalic fish. 
And O, if Earth's strata contains 

In its lowest Silurian drift. 
Or Palaeozoic remains 

The same, — 't is your lover's free gift ! 

Then come, love, and never say nay. 
But calm all your maidenly fears. 



A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL. I4I 

We '11 note, love, in one summer s day 
The record of millions of years ; 

And though the Darwinian plan 
Your sensitive feelings may shock, 

We '11 find the beginning of man, — 
Our fossil ancestors in rock ! 



THE WILLOWS. 



AFTER EDGAR A. POE. 



'npHE skies they were ashen and sober, 

The streets they were dirty and drear ; 
It was night in the month of October, 

Of my most immemorial year ; 
Like the skies I was perfectly sober, 

As I stopped at the mansion of Shear, — 
At the Nightingale, — perfectly sober. 
And the willowy woodland, down here. 

Here, once in an alley Titanic 

Of Ten-pins, — I roamed with my soul, — 
Of Ten-pins, — with Mary, my soul ; 



THE WILLOWS. I43 

They were days when my heart was volcanic, 

And impelled me to frequently roll, 

And made me resistlessly roll, 
Till my ten-strikes created a panic 

In the realms of the Boreal pole, 
Till my ten-strikes created a panic 

With the monkey atop of his pole. 

I repeat, I was perfectly sober, 

But my thoughts they were palsied and sear, — 

My thoughts were decidedly queer ; 
For I knew not the month was October, 

And I marked not the night of the year ; 
I forgot that sweet morceatt of Auber 

That the band oft performed down here. 
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber 

With the Nightingale's music by Shear. 



144 THE WILLOWS. 

And now as the night was senescent, 
And star-dials pointed to morn, 
And car-drivers hinted of morn. 

At the end of the path a liquescent 
And bibulous lustre was born ; 

'T was made by the bar-keeper present, 
Who mixed a duplicate horn, — 

His two hands describing a crescent 
Distinct with a duplicate horn. 

And I said : " This looks perfectly regal, 
For it 's warm, and I know I feel dry, - 
I am confident that I feel dry ; 

We have come past the emeu and eagle. 
And watched the gay monkey on high ; 

Let us drink to the emeu and eagle, — 
To the swan and the monkey on high - 



THE WILLOWS. I45 

To the eagle and monkey on high ; 
For this barkeeper will not inveigle, — 

Bully boy with the vitreous eye ; 
He surely would never inveigle, — 

Sweet youth with the crystalline eye." 

But Mary, uplifting her finger, 

Said, " Sadly this bar I mistrust, — 
I fear that this bar does not trust. 

O hasten ! O let us not linger ! 

O fly, — let us fly, — ere we must ! " 

In terror she cried, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust, — 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust, — 
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

7 J 



146 THE WILLOWS. 

Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, 
And tempted her into the room, 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 

But were stopped by the warning of doom, - 
By some words that were warning of doom. 

And I said, "What is written, sweet sister, 
At the opposite end of the room ? " 

She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors 
Must be paid for ere leaving the room." 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, 
As the streets were deserted and drear, — 
For my pockets were empty and drear; 

And I cried, " It was surely October, 
On this very night of last year, 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here,- 



THE WILLOWS. 14/ 

That I brought a fair maiden down here, 

On this night of all nights in the year. 

Ah ! to me that inscription is clear ; 
Well I know now, I 'm perfectly sober, 

Why no longer they credit me here, — 
Well I know now that music of Auber, 

And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear. 



NORTH BEACH. 



AFTER SPENSER. 



T O ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 

Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide, — 
No more the home where joy and wealth repose, 
But now where wassailers in cells abide ; 
See. yon long quay that stretches far and wide, 
Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs ; 
There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride 
The pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs 
Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's. 

Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid, 
While in her ear her love his tale doth pour; 



NORTH BEACH. I49 

Meantime her infant doth her charge evade, 

And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore, 

Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid, 

Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore. 

Ah me ! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore, 

When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar. 

Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie, 

And at its side a garden, where the bear, 

The stealthy catamount, and coon agree 

To work deceit on all who gather there ; 

And when Augusta — that unconscious fair — 

With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free, 

Lo ! the green parrot claweth her back hair, 

And the gray monkey grabbeth fruits that she 

On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee ! 



THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS. 

T T IGH on the Thracian hills, half hid in the 

billows of clover, 
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by 

Pactolian streamlet, 
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr 
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully 

mumbled his chestnuts. 

Vainly the Mrenid and the Bassarid gambolled 
about her, 

The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan — the re- 
nowned, the accomplished — 



THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS. I51 

Executed his difficult solo. In vain were tlieir 

gambols and dances : 
High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the 

shepherdess, wailing. 

" Ai ! for the fleecy flocks, — the meek-nosed, the 

passionless faces ; 
Ai \ for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the 

high-stepping ; 
Ai ! for the timid glance, which is that which the 

rustic, sagacious. 
Applies to him who loves but may not declare his 

passion ! " 

Her then Zeus answered slow: "O daughter of 
song and sorrow, — 

Hapless tender of sheep, — arise from thy long lam- 
entation ! 



152 THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS. 

Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as be- 
comes a Greek maiden, 

Look and behold thy ^heep." — And lo ! they re- 
turned to her tailless ! 



THE END. 



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